


A Certain Longing

by TonightNoPoetryWillServe



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Angst and then fluff and a happy ending, M/M, Pining, Porn, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonightNoPoetryWillServe/pseuds/TonightNoPoetryWillServe
Summary: Laurence chooses a terrible time to have a sexual awakening. Set during their capture by Napoleon in League of Dragons.WARNING: This could definitely be read as dub-con
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/William Laurence, William Laurence/Tenzing Tharkay
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write a bit of Napoleon/Laurence on my way to Tharkay/Laurence... and somehow ended up writing Napoleon/Laurence porn. My apologies? 
> 
> First line stolen directly from League of Dragons. Not beta'd.

“Ah! So this is the infamous gentleman? Laurence, you do not know how much you are in my debt: Fouche outright gnashed his teeth at me when I told him he must give up his prey,” Napoleon booms.

Tharkay feels his stomach drop. His suspicions about his release are confirmed: Laurence has begged mercy on his behalf. It is nearly impossible. Tharkay had previously reconciled himself that Laurence would likely die for him, but this is a much greater cost: his pride, his honor. 

Laurence was willing to make those sacrifices to prevent genocide and for love of Temeraire, but to save Tharkay’s life? It feels insufficient return for a man as noble as Laurence. And yet, it has been done. Tharkay tamps down on the many emotions this prompts, including his fury with Napoleon, who will surely use it to his advantage. 

He hates the easy way that Napoleon touches Laurence, kissing him on each cheek, throwing his arm around his shoulder, treating him like an old friend.

As Napoleon parades Laurence around the grounds like a prize stallion, Tharkay’s fury only grows. Napoleon pretends to an intimacy and friendship he has not earned, and Laurence, now in Napoleon’s debt, cannot stop him.

It is already intolerable, and then Napoleon pushes things a step further. As he points out the Americans dragons to Laurence, he lets his hand skim down Laurence’s back—and lower. Even in France, that is no sign of friendship. Tharkay is nearly breathless with rage, and terror. 

Later, when Laurence assures him that of course he would make the attempt to save Tharkay's life, Tharkay almost feel guilty for having doubted it. Laurence has always given his full measure of loyalty; it is not his fault that Tharkay has so rarely received such treatment and struggles to accept it. And it is certainly not Laurence’s fault that Tharkay desires far more of him than he would ever consent to give.

When Napoleon asks Laurence to join him for dinner, Laurence can hardly refuse. Tharkay wishes desperately for something to do with his hands as he and Granby wait by the fire, first distracting themselves with talk, cards, and drink, then sitting in silence as the hours stretch on. Laurence does not return until the next morning. 

***

It is a private dinner, just the two of them, in a well-appointed but cozy room that feels quite perfect for such an event. Laurence tries to hold on to his reserve, but Napoleon does not cross any lines, other than briefly lamenting that Laurence has not yet joined his side. He does not ask for any intelligence that would require Laurence to betray his country a second time, and almost against his will, Laurence feels himself begin to relax.

The free-flowing wine certainly helps. The servants are nearly invisible, but whenever his glass is half-empty, one of them is immediately at his side to fill it. Napoleon is an excellent conversationalist; he finds himself drawn in, leaning forward, as they discuss battles, and ships, and dragons.

The dinner is scrumptious, but not overly heavy, and Laurence feels quite comfortable when they retire to a low-slung couch for more conversation. And more wine. 

Napoleon hasn’t crossed any lines, until he crosses one Laurence had not even thought to draw.

“You have no idea how it pleases me to see you again,” Napoleon says, as Laurence places the—finally—empty glass on the side table. “I have thought of you often.”

There is something odd in the words, but Laurence does not have the opportunity to properly respond. As he turns back, Napoleon is right there, capturing his lips with a kiss.

Laurence’s lips part slightly in surprise, and Napoleon presses his advantage, kissing him thoroughly, commandingly. Laurence finds himself on his back on the couch. His mind is oddly blank. He should push the man off him in fury—he is an enemy, and a man—but before he can bring himself to act, Napoleon withdraws. 

He leaves Laurence breathless, both relieved and wanting. When Napoleon pulls him to his feet, Laurence thinks the strange encounter is over, but then he is being kissed again, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his hip. Napoleon is holding him close even as he maneuvers him toward the side door.

Laurence goes willingly, eyes drifting closed as he loses himself in the other man’s lips and scent. He is drunker than he’s realized, and feels drunker still as the kiss intensifies. 

His mind registers that Napoleon is removing his clothes, and it’s really quite unfair that the other man is still so coordinated.

He soon finds himself on his back a second time, having been relieved of his coat and shirt. The bed is nearly too comfortable below him. As Napoleon presses down on top of him, he can feel the other man hard against his thigh. He lets out a gasp. “Your majesty—”

“Napoleon. Call me Napoleon, Will.”

His name has never sounded so filthy.

“Napoleon,” he whispers, the name tasting differently on his lips now, even though he’s spoken it many times before.

Nothing is as it should be. Laurence is normally the one in control, but he has never had a lover so attentive, setting every inch of him aflame and wanton. Whatever has Napoleon done to him?

Before he knows it, he’s completely relieved of his clothes, and Napoleon gives him a brief respite to remove his own clothing, looking down at him like he is a feast to be devoured. 

If Laurence is going to flee, he had better do so now. But Napoleon’s eyes locked on his hold him frozen in place. “I would have all of you, Will.” The words send a shiver down his spine. “Yet you still insist on loyalty to those who do not deserve it. So, I will have you like this.”

Laurence swallows around the dryness in his throat. “I have never…” he ventures, unable to continue.

“I know,” Napoleon says, too gently. “I will show you how good it can feel.” 

And he does. Laurence has always been a quiet lover, but the way Napoleon’s tongue and hands play against his body do things to him no other lover has done, and he finds himself gasping and moaning, and feeling too good to care.

When Napoleon’s tongue slides inside him and curls upwards, touching some hidden place he never knew existed, he nearly blacks out. Soon the other man is working him with fingers and tongue, the other hand stroking him, and he finds himself nearing the edge. Napoleon withdraws too soon. “Not yet,” he commands, and Laurence nearly hisses with frustration.

Then Napoleon is adjusting their positions and pushing inside him. The intrusion makes him shudder, and he clutches the other man, trying to breath. Napoleon holds still, holding him through it, and then he starts to move, returning a firm hand to Laurence’s arousal.

Laurence completely forgets himself. And Christ, he can hear himself begging for it. “Please, Napoleon please—” 

“Yes,” Napoleon whispers, having fallen into French. “Beg me.” Everything is heat and nearly impossible pleasure, and soon he finds himself crying out, the orgasm washing over him like a typhoon. Napoleon follows soon after, and for a long moment they cling to one another, the aftershocks running through them.

He is only dimly aware, a few minutes later, of Napoleon cleaning him with a damp cloth. Before it’s over, he is fast asleep.

***

When Laurence opens his eyes, Napoleon is watching him, and completely unabashed to be caught doing so. 

For a moment, Laurence feels disoriented and confused. Then the night before comes rushing back to him. God in heaven, he had let Napoleon—Emperor of France, sworn enemy, his captor—Christ. He had gone willingly to Napoleon’s bed.

He flushes and sits up, swinging his feet to the side of the bed, wincing slightly at the soreness. It knocks the breath out of him again, like he can still feel Napoleon inside him. The thought makes his face burn. He stands, trying to move deliberately, to not make it so obvious that he feels it, and that he is fleeing.

Napoleon continues to watch him. “Will you not come back to bed?” he purrs.

“Your majesty—” 

“Napoleon,” the Emperor corrects.

Laurence says nothing. He is frustrated to find that his clothing has been replaced with something finer. Which means that someone has been in the room while they slept. 

“I wish to be returned to my cell. Please.” He finds the color rising in his cheeks again, the memory of him begging Napoleon the night before hitting him with almost physical force. 

“Very well, my dear Will,” Napoleon responds easily, rising himself. “I must be away the next few days, but you will join me again for dinner Saturday.”

Laurence recognizes he has little choice about the dinner. But he’ll be damned if he’ll drink this much again, damned if he’ll let Napoleon so easily coax him into his bed again. And yet… Laurence’s pulse quickens at the thought of it, and his cheeks darken further. “Sir,” he tries. “Napoleon, we cannot—“

Napoleon laughs. “I am not trying to embarrass you. But it is clear to us both now, hm? That you belong at my side. No one else has appreciated you as you deserve. No one else dares see your greatness, and no one else is worthy of it.”

Of course his esteem for Laurence is wrapped up in his own ego. But Laurence finds it hard to fight with both Napoleon and his own inner doubts, all at once. 

“I will have someone bring you back now,” Napoleon says, seemingly taking pity, but Laurence knows it is not that. Knows himself ensnared; he has no idea what to do about it.

***

Laurence does not return until the next morning, and when he does, he is wearing different clothing.

“Jesus, Laurence, you had us worried. Are you all right?” Granby is asking the minute Laurence walks in the door.

Laurence waves him off, looking… strange. Tharkay observes him carefully, trying to understand. He is tired, certainly, but that is not all.

“Where in the hell have you been?” Granby continues. He has glanced over Laurence and, determining he is unharmed, flopped down again in one of the chairs.

“Nowhere of interest, I assure you,” Laurence says, still standing. “It grew late and no one was around to bring me back, so they gave me another room for the evening.” He does not meet Granby’s eye, nor Tharkay’s. The words ring falsely casual, clearly rehearsed.

Oh, something is definitely off. And Laurence is still standing. 

“I suppose he tried to get you to join his side again?”

There is a very slight flush on Laurence’s cheeks, which cannot be a good sign. “Indeed, he quite overestimates his powers of persuasion,” Laurence says, but it almost sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself. “How is everything here? Any word of the dragons?”

This distracts Granby sufficiently, but Tharkay is still focused on Laurence. He is standing even more rigidly than normal, and when Granby goes for a glass of water, he finally lowers himself gingerly down onto a seat. The grimace is quickly suppressed, but Tharkay sees it all the same.

 _Oh._ Oh _no._ It can’t be. Napoleon cannot have..

Tharkay has to look away to keep from grabbing Laurence about the shoulders and demanding to know exactly what Napoleon has done to him. 

_Did he force you? Did he threaten you? Oh please, let me have got this all wrong._

It is an exceedingly long day. Laurence’s spirits seem to sink lower, but thankfully Granby is tired from sitting up late the night before, and goes to bed early.

This leaves Laurence with Tharkay and a roaring fire. Tharkay offers him a glass of wine, but Laurence shakes his head. He has abstained with their meals today, as well. 

“Laurence,” Tharkay begins. “I would not pry where you do not wish to speak, but I would feel remiss if I let the matter pass without being sure that you did not: you seem quite unwell after your visit with Napoleon.”

Laurence tenses almost imperceptibly. “I cannot claim to enjoy my part in the charade he has orchestrated,” he says simply.

“Will,” he tries again, and Laurence looks over at him, in some confusion at his tone. Tharkay knows he should let it go, knows it is not his place. But the words come to his lips of their own volition. “It has not escaped my attention that Napoleon holds you in particularly high regard.”

Laurence’s lip trembles ever so slightly, the color rising in his cheeks. “I cannot claim to know what you refer to, aside from his desires to pretend I am in support of his cause.” 

But he does know. The conversation is confirming Tharkay’s worst fears—not what Laurence says, but the set of his jaw, the tenseness of his shoulders. “You cannot?” 

Laurence looks away. “I thank you for your concern, but I am all right. I am however very tired, and will turn in for the evening. Goodnight, Tenzing.”

Tharkay lest out a short sigh of thanks that Laurence still calls him Tenzing, in spite of his prodding, and not Tharkay. But it is not enough.

***

Laurence’s resolve on Saturday does not last long. Not when Napoleon is kissing him again like that and then _dropping to his damn knees_ to take him in his mouth. And oh Lord, the Emperor of France on his knees, and still Laurence is the one feeling helpless. He sways, clutching a nearby table to stay steady. Napoleon finishes him there before taking him to the bed and fucking him senseless, so long that he manages to climax again. 

Napoleon has awoken something in him he does not recognize. Something carnal and wanting and wild. He has never felt so out of control. He has never felt so good, even as he despises his situation. And he wonders, now, if he can ever go back to the somewhat staid pleasure he has experienced with women. 

His legs feel like jelly the next morning, and it takes several tries before he is ready to make the walk back. He wonders ruefully if this is Napoleon’s very enjoyable way of incapacitating him to the point that he cannot even attempt escape. 

The next time, Napoleon does not bother with dinner first. 

Granby and Tharkay are clearly worried about him, and he finds himself playing up Napoleon’s efforts to convince him to join France. It is a deception, and he regrets it, but better than telling them the truth. It is bad enough to have allowed himself to succumb to inverted tendencies. But to do so with their enemy; the man who even now held Granby, Tharkay, Temeraire, and Iskierka against their will; the man who was planning the invasion of their country—it simply cannot be born. 

It must stop. It needed to stop. He will tell Napoleon so, when they met the next evening. But even as he thinks of seeing the Emperor again, he can feel the anticipation rising. _Damn that man straight to the depths of hell._

Tharkay is watching him again, after Granby has gone to bed. “Will,” he says softly. “What are you doing?”

Laurence freezes. It brings him back to the last time Tharkay said those words to him, when Tharkay brought him back to himself after he had become a murderer and a mere instrument of the state’s violence.

Is that what he is now? An instrument? The problem is, he does not feel not himself. He feels awakened to himself. His shoulders slump. “I have provided no material aid, no willing aid in propping up his position.”

“That is not what I mean,” Tharkay says softly.

Laurence tries to resist the urge to curl in on himself. “It is true,” he says very softly, unable to believe he is discussing this with anyone at all. “I have allowed things that are—are both improper and illegal. And it seems I am very unlikely to stop, despite that each time I vow to.”

***

Tharkay watches him, moistens his lips, weighs his words. He is still furious with Napoleon, for surely the man has taken advantage. Surely he has taken something that does not belong to him. 

_It is not as if he belonged to you,_ Tharkay’s conscious reproaches him, which is of course true. If Laurence truly belongs to anyone, it is Temeraire. 

He hates that the words make something else rise in him. That if Laurence is in fact willingly giving himself to the French Emperor—that there is some small measures of hope of fulfillment for his own low desires. But now is not the time, if ever there is to be one.

“I will not judge you, nor betray you,” Tharkay settles on, voice soft. “But you cannot ask me not to worry about you.”

Laurence looks up at that. “Why not?”

“Because I have given you my word, and because you have always kept yours,” Tharkay says softly.

Laurence stares at him a long moment, then looks down at his hands. “I should never have allowed it to begin with. I do not know why I did. Perhaps it was simply… a certain longing, so long buried that once unearthed it could not be controlled.”

 _A certain longing._ The words echoed in Tharkay’s mind. “Then you had never before…?”

“No,” Laurence says simply, miserably.

“Will… do you want to stay with him?”

Laurence’s horrorstruck expression is answer enough, but he says quickly, “Gods, no. I want to be away as quickly as we can.”

Tharkay moves without thinking, to wrap an arm around his friend’s shoulders. Laurence is shaking ever so slightly, and he does not at first realize that his friend is crying.

The next evening, when Laurence once again goes to dine with Napoleon, he does not look at Tharkay. And he still does not return until morning. 

***

Escape is difficult. Napoleon eventually allows a reunion between the man and his dragon under carefully controlled circumstances. Temeraire trills over Laurence’s new coat—a gift from the Emperor—even as he laments their situation. 

The words said and unsaid strike Tharkay to his core. Knowing no one else can understand, he feels a strange sense of voyeurism, and of pleasure, at his understanding. Laurence is telling Temeraire to take the egg and to leave without him. There can be no other interpretation. Laurence is confident the Emperor will not hurt him or his human companions, and wants Temeraire, Iskierka, and the egg safely away. Temeraire nearly furrows the ground in frustration, but he agrees.

It is noble, and sensible, but Tharkay hates it all the same. Not only because it will keep him a prisoner himself, but also for what it will mean for Laurence and Napoleon.

Thankfully, the egg hatches and all hell breaks loose. Laurence insists on rescuing Napoleon's son, and then there is a moment, a moment Tharkay is sure no one else sees, when Napoleon looks at Laurence, and they might have had an entire conversation with a glance alone. But then the decision is made, and they are rushing away from Napoleon, and soon they are dragon-back, fleeing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war ends, and Laurence and Tharkay go home. 
> 
> First few lines stolen directly from League of Dragons. Unbeta'd AF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Temeraire fic is complete! I have a few more in the works, hopefully coming soon - now that I've gotten the Napoleon/Laurence out of my system, it's all Tharkay/Laurence from here on out :)

“No; I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, I only wished to…” Laurence stands in front of the defeated French emperor, unsure why he is here.

“Ah, come,” Napoleon says, clasping Laurence by the shoulders and kissing both cheeks, then caressing his cheek with a gentle hand. It sends warmth rushing through Laurence, but there is no desire now. “Do you suppose I would ever reproach you, of all my foes? I am sorry only to have faced you across the field, when you ought to have been by my side.”

They talk together a long while, and Laurence feels a sense of peace come over him. Napoleon has taken his hand and is holding it absently in his lap, but neither of them moves to do anything but talk.

When they are interrupted, Napoleon learns the true architect behind his fate: his own wife. Laurence is furious for him, and wants to comfort him, but of course can do no such thing with an audience.

While the chastened ministers shuffle out the door, Napoleon faces the window, standing utterly alone. Laurence stares a long moment, drinking in the sight of him, and a sort of aching certainty settling in his chest: they will never see one another again. He regrets it, even as he feels its necessity. 

He silently thanks and curses Napoleon for the role he’s played in Laurence’s life. _Farewell, your majesty. Napoleon. Onward._

***

Tharkay stares at the magistrate as if he has not quite heard him. Then his lawyer is shaking his hand heartily, and the world comes sharply back into focus. He has won his case. The estate and its fortune are his. 

It is the second very excellent piece of news in only a few days’ time: the first being that the war is won, singlehandedly by Laurence and Temeraire, if the newspapers are to be believed. Tharkay knows better than to take this at face value, but it scarcely matters. Laurence and Temeraire are _alive_. Napoleon is a prisoner, to be shipped off to Elba and with any luck never to see Laurence again. He tries not to dwell on what happened between them, or on what Laurence might still feel for the man.

Instead, Tharkay considers that after so long spent bending his path to Laurence’s, he might gently bend the man’s path toward him. It is an impudent thought, but he allows it. Because ultimately it does not matter if Laurence never wakes up in his arms, if only he can spend each day in his company. Or so he tells himself as he makes his preparations. 

The morning after he makes his offer, he awaits Laurence at breakfast, trying not to fear the potential refusal. It is not the first time he has laid out a path for Laurence, as he did with the privateering venture, but it’s the first time he’s had real hope that Laurence would walk down it.

“Good morning, Tenzing,” Laurence says when he arrives, taking a seat across from him.

Tharkay nods in greeting, his face masking both anticipation and anxiety. 

“I admit I was… a bit surprised by your offer,” Laurence concedes once they’ve placed their breakfast orders. “That after everything you know of me, you would still wish Temeraire and I to make ourselves at home on your estate.”

“Everything I know of you has led me to believe I would be lucky to have you both at my side.”

“Then you do not mind… that…”

“There is nothing at all about you that I mind, Will.”

Laurence’s eyes search Tharkay’s; he submits to the scrutiny patiently. Whatever Laurence is looking for, he seems to find it. He looks relieved, and, if Tharkay dares credit it, happy. “In that case, we would be honored to join you.” 

Tharkay lets out a slow and measured breath, to prevent his relief from showing too plainly. “I am glad to hear it. I believe I have found the perfect place for Temeraire’s pavilion, though I will of course consult him on the matter.”

The words strike Laurence with particular emotional force. “Thank you, my friend,” he says warmly, and gives Tharkay’s hand on the table a gentle squeeze.

Tharkay can’t help himself: he begins to hope.

***

The absence of Napoleon in Laurence’s life does not preclude him from occasionally featuring in Laurence’s fantasies. Laurence initially tries to shut him out, but the memories are persistent. They are a bit too pleasing to let slip away entirely.

_“Touch yourself for me,” Napoleon says in his memories. “Give yourself pleasure, and say my name.”_

_“Napoleon,” Laurence whispers._

In the here and now, he strokes himself in the darkness.

_“You are exquisite,” Napoleon says, licking his lips. He starts to touch himself in turn, and Laurence shudders at the sight of it. “Now, now,” and damn him for keeping such self-control. “Not without my permission.”_

_“Please,” Laurence says._

_Napoleon just smiles. “I so love it when you beg me.”_

_“_ Christ, _please, Napoleon..”_

_“You beg so nicely, but not yet..”_

_This continues for some while, the pleas spilling from Laurence’s lips, and finally Napoleon nods. “Come for me.”_

Laurence strokes harder, every sense aflame, but he can’t quite bring himself, not until a different face floats before his closed eyes. “Tenzing,” he grinds out, spilling all over his hand.

 _Oh,_ oh hell. Laurence stares up at the ceiling. As wonderful as it felt to surrender to Napoleon’s touch, he never felt safe in Napoleon’s arms. Safety, belonging—those feeling comes from another. Napoleon has awakened something in him, and only now does he realize what it truly means. _Tenzing._

***

It’s been a few weeks since Laurence and Temeraire came to live with Tharkay, and already they are well settled. Temeraire has thrown himself into politics and campaigning—a bit unnecessary with no other dragons in the district, but he wants to get to know his human constituents.

Laurence has become his erstwhile advisor, while also assisting Tharkay with the management of the estate. Tharkay feels he is living a dream, to have Laurence with him so much, to see him become so indispensable to the estate that all his honor must be satisfied. 

These thoughts are interrupted when the estate’s lake comes into view, because not only is Laurence in it, but he is _shirtless_. Tharkay has seen him similarly unclad before, has even allowed himself to stare, but he is still struck with the sight of smooth skin, marbled with occasional scars, stretched over Laurence’s wiry muscles. His body is far paler than his face, which so often sees the sun.

And really, Tharkay must be losing his mind because it takes him a moment to realize that there is a 20 tonne dragon in the lake with Laurence, rolling about happily and sending water splashing. 

Laurence coughs, and Temeraire fixates on him immediately. “Are you sure you are not cold, Laurence?”

“I do very well,” Laurence says, but his teeth are beginning to chatter.

“Oh, I told you it was too cold for you! I think you must get out now,” Temeraire says, eyeing him with concern.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Tharkay adds, striding forward. “What do you mean, swimming in this weather?”

“It had seemed warm enough,” Laurence responds stiffly. 

“Come, let’s get you inside.”  
H  
“Thank you, dear Tenzing. I am glad to know you’ll look after him,” Temeraire says, overly-solicitous as always.

“Of course, Temeraire.”

“If the two of you are quite finished,” Laurence interjects, exasperated. But he allows himself to be led back toward the house, Tharkay’s coat wrapped around his shoulders.

“I would have thought your penchant for illness and injury could not be satisfied at a rather uneventful country estate, but I see I am mistaken.”

“I am hardly likely to catch my death, or even so much as a chill,” Laurence protests, but he has begun to shiver.

Tharkay leads him directly to his own dressing room. “Take off your clothing, I am pouring you a bath.”

“Pardon?”

“No arguments, if you please. I gave Temeraire my word.”

A pleasant pink stains Laurence’s cheeks, but he complies, stripping off his wet clothing. Tharkay very pointedly does not let his eyes drink in the sight of him, instead seeing to the bath. He half expects Laurence to protest, but he does not, blue eyes merely tracking his moments, a question in them that Tharkay cannot risk answering.

He leaves while Laurence bathes, but his back shortly thereafter, and soon Laurence is clad in a warm jumper, wrapped in a blanket, and planted in a chair by the fire, a mug of hot tea in his hands. Tharkay looks him over, quite pleased with his handiwork. 

Laurence so often carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Tharkay has long taken it as his role to care for Laurence in turn. The results to date have been pleasant, but never quite so… _cute_.

“I suppose I must thank you, for always looking after me,” Laurence confesses, a bit grumpily. His cheeks are red.

“Not at all,” Tharkay says. “Someone must, and even Temeraire can scarcely take on the duty alone.”

“I am sorry, to have been such a burden to you both.”

“Please, Will. You must never apologize for that.”

Laurence smiles, and sips his tea. 

***

Sitting by the fire together becomes a favorite pastime, even though Tharkay continues to occasionally query whether he has been in any freezing lakes today. Laurence glances over at the man sitting beside him, watching the oranges and reds of firelight dancing across his face. And once again, he is struck with how safe he feels here, with Tharkay. 

Life on the estate suits Laurence. It is both productive and peaceful, and he is supporting the two people most important to him in the world.

In this quite moment, he finds himself wondering what it would feel like to run his hands through his friend’s dark hair, to kiss him, to feel him in the way he has only felt Napoleon.

The realization that he cares for Tharkay as far more than a friend certainly came as a a blow. But it makes sense that he has denied his feelings so long, until his liaison with Napoleon forced him to confront the fact that he can feel for—and desire—men as well as women. Better than, if he is being honest. 

Still, it is not an appropriate thought to have. He must be grateful that Tharkay has seen past his failings and accepted him anyway. Has cared for him anyway, as a dear friend.

“Will, I would not wish to pry, but if you think any harder, that furrow in your brow is likely to become permanent.” 

Laurence blinks. “My apologies, I was unaware I had become so transparent.”

“Become?” Tharkay echoes, amusement etched across his features.

This prompts a laugh. “I suppose you always did see through me. I confess I was lost in thought, but am quite happy to be recalled to the present. This is too pleasant for me to want to be elsewhere.”

Tharkay sips his drink, still watching Laurence over the rim of the glass. “You are content, then?”

Laurence smiles. “More so than ever in my life.”

For a moment, something unfamiliar flickers over Tharkay’s face. “I am glad.”

They sit in companionable silence for a time, and Laurence finds he is at odds with himself: both truly, deeply content; and also… _longing_. 

He speaks, to change the subject, even though there is no need. “Did you know that Temeraire has just learned that women cannot vote? He is quite incensed over the matter.”

“That does not surprise me. It is, after all, patently absurd.”

They talk long into the night, and if Laurence does not quite forget his feelings, he is not actively dwelling on them. He allows himself to simply be content in Tharkay’s company. _This is enough. It must be._

***

A few weeks later, Tharkay finds Laurence sitting on the ground, leaning back against a sleeping Temeraire, gazing at the dark sky blanketed with stars. He pauses a moment to enjoy the view, then asks, “Am I disturbing you?” 

“Not at all.”

Tharkay sits beside him, making use of Temeraire’s bulk as a comfort in the cold night. The moon is full, and the light glimmers along the hollow of Laurence’s throat. With a small start of shock, Tharkay realizes he is not wearing a neckcloth. He cannot help but stare, the sight devastatingly beautiful, and Tharkay finds a phrase from a not so long-ago conversation ringing in his mind: _a certain longing_. The words Laurence had spoken to explain his liaison with Napoleon. 

And finally, he raises the issue that has been burning in the back of his mind ever since Laurence’s arrival here. “I have been thinking,” he begins slowly, “About Napoleon.”

Laurence is silent a long moment, then says simply, “Ah.” He looks less embarrassed than Tharkay might have feared.

“I have been wondering,” Tharkay says, trying to keep his voice even. “If you do not still feel… a certain longing, for him?”

He expects Laurence to shut down at the question, but the man only looks thoughtful. “No. I cannot bring myself to regret what we shared, but having escaped him, the spell is broken. I have no wish to be a trophy.”

“How would you wish to be treated?” Surely at any moment, Laurence will end this highly inappropriate interrogation and tell him to go to the devil.

But Laurence replies easily. “As a partner. As an equal. Though having that, I should also wish for a satisfaction of that certain longing, to be so completely..” He trails off.

“So completely?” Tharkay prompts.

“Released,” Laurence breaths out, and Tharkay shudders, not having quite realized he is hanging on Laurence’s every word. Laurence turns to him, a rueful smile on his face. He starts at whatever he sees in Tharkay’s gaze, and Tharkay finds he cannot look away. “Tenzing…”

“Yes?”

Laurence leans forward, and brushes his lips, ever so gently, against the other man’s. Tharkay returns the kiss automatically, which stays slow and sweet. Laurence pulls away too quickly, but doesn’t go far.

“Is this what you want?” He breathes the words, low and hot, against Tharkay’s lips. 

_Is Laurence really offering… And all he has to say is yes?_

But he cannot say yes, not without being sure. He swallows around the fear and forces himself to seize the opportunity before him. This had not been his intention, really, in asking, but now it will be said, and he will know, one way or the other.

“I want to be your partner. I want to be your equal. I want to belong with you, and with Temeraire, and for you to belong with me.” It doesn’t even strike him as strange that Temeraire is a part of his confession. After all, he and Laurence are part of one another. “And I want to satisfy that certain longing. To give you that release, and to make sure you know you are safe when you receive it.” 

Laurence’s expression is awestruck.

“Oh, how splendid!” Laurence and Tharkay pull apart in surprise, not having realized that Temeraire is awake and listening in. “I suppose that means you will be married, in a sense, though I know Government has some silliness about not allowing it between men. We shall have to raise that in Parliament. But in any event, it certainly makes you a member of my crew.”

“I believe it does,” Tharkay replies, feeling a sort of giddiness.

“I cannot tell you what happiness it brings me,” Laurence says, “To be with the two of you, and to pledge my heart to you both. Tenzing, you do belong with us. And we belong with you.”

Tharkay feels like he’s flying, except this is better even than the feel of the air rushing by him when he’s dragon-back. Much as he wants to drag Laurence to his bed right then, he settles for taking his hand and huddling close against Temeraire. This feeling of safety is unlike anything he’s experienced anywhere else. It is belonging. It is home.

***

They make their way down the hill, back toward the house, having finally escaped Temeraire’s hearty congratulations and rather worrying plans for their future. Laurence cannot seem to make his way to the right words, so he stays silent, but keeps his hand entwined in Tharkay’s.

To know that Tharkay feels as he does, his heart is all but bursting. He knows he should release Tharkay’s hand as they walk through the house—there is a possibility some of the servants may still be awake—but he does not. 

Once they are inside Tharkay’s room, Tharkay turns to look at him. “I have wanted this for a very long time,” he offers softly, and suddenly so much of what has happened between them shifts, coming into focus.

“You wanted,” Laurnce marvels softly.

“So much I thought I’d break apart, but I convinced myself your friendship was enough. I never knew you could want more, not until…”

“Until Napoleon, of all people.”

Tharkay nods. “Perhaps I should be thanking him.”

“I think,” Laurence says, taking Tharkay’s other hand in his and twining their fingers together, pleased that the other man’s hands are so recovered after the ordeal in China, “that that is enough talk of Napoleon. You are the one I want. The one I have always wanted, even when I could not admit it to myself.”

Tharkay’s answer is a kiss, less gentle, more _need_ , a low noise rising in his throat that makes Laurence shudder against him. His fingers are already making their way to the buttons of Laurence’s shirt. 

Laurence wants desperately to take his time, and also to get Tharkay naked as soon as humanly possible. He is acutely aware of every brush of Tharkay’s fingers against his skin as the man undresses him. Once they are done, he allows himself to look, really look. “You are beautiful.”

That earns a smile, and Tharkay tugs him in the direction of the bed, pulling Laurence down on top of him. “Tell me,” Tharkay whispers against his lips. “Tell me what you want…”

“I want,” Laurence whispers, pausing to kiss Tharkay thoroughly, because no one has _ever_ asked him what he wants before in bed. “First, I want to please you,” he whispers again, kissing his way down Tharkay’s chest and nuzzling at the thatch of hair.

“ _Will,_ ” Tharkay moans, as Laurence takes him in his mouth. He flicks his tongue over the head, swirling, sucking, humming. Tharkay bucks under him, fingers clutching at his shoulder. It delights him, to hear the man he loves. “Will, if you keep going, I’m going to... _Oh_.” His hand finds Laurence’s cheek, a warning, but Laurence keeps going anyway, and soon Tharkay is groaning out his release.

Laurence sucks him through it and then slowly kisses his way up until he’s nuzzling Tharkay’s cheek. Tharkay clutches him close, still riding the after waves. “I should have known,” he murmurs, “that you would be so generous, even here.”

“It is not generosity. You asked me what I wanted,” Laurence replies. “I wanted to know how you sound, how you taste.”

Tharkay shivers. He begins to run his hands over Laurence’s body again. “And now, what do you want? Will you allow me to return the favor?”

Laurence takes his hand and guides it to his own length, fingers moving together, showing Tharkay how he likes it. “I.. would like it if you just touch me, like this.” Tharkay seems more than happy to comply, and Laurence finds himself groaning and sighing, and soon he feels Tharkay hard against his hip. 

He has been almost nervous to take this next step, but he trusts Tharkay. “I want you,” he whispers, hoarse and low.

“You’re sure?”

“Gods yes.”

Tharkay swallows hard and turns away briefly to get the oil from his bedside stand. His fingers shake a bit, but he grows more confident. 

And when Tharkay finally moves inside him, the feeling of heat and pleasure are nearly too much to bear, and Laurence feels a thrill of happiness to know that he can surrender himself completely to this feeling, and know that all is well. “I’ve got you,” Tharkay whispers, and Laurence believes him. He lets go. He is home.


End file.
